


even to the edge of doom

by charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: (not really tho because), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Jonsa, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Political Jon, Pregnancy, R Plus L Equals J, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:02:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25002832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: ‘Who knew this man of violence could be so gentle? None but her.’Jon’s homecoming from Dragonstone goes a little differently. Political/Dark Jonsa au—one-shot.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 32
Kudos: 191





	even to the edge of doom

**Author's Note:**

> > This has been kicking around in my drafts for a while. I hesitate(d) to post it because frankly it is _not_ a new trope and there are so many excellent interpretations of it on this site alone that mine pales in comparison to; but 🤷🏻 here it is now — give it a go! You might like it. Maybe!

Greetings are exchanged — ice-lipped, cool — and the courtyard is cleared. Rumbling of foot and plate; a conqueror’s army led away to gnaw at Winterfell’s stores.

Sansa watches it all, nary a ripple stirring in her eyes: blue-wide, placid as a lake. But Jon can see the tautness of her jaw, the tightening at the very edges of her face, the strings lifting the lines of her cheekbones to dizzying heights. He feels as if he is propped on the ledge of one of them when he looks at her, a belly-dip as his body flutters to fall.

But there is no time for that.

It is a game the two of them play together now. The pieces are assembled — bone-chips on a board — and they must be moved carefully, purposefully. It is a quiet game; a secret shared between brother and sister, a plan that begins and ends with the pack that sings in the blood that bonds them.

Wolf’s blood: wild, shadowy as the dark between snow-dappled trees.

Hangs in the air, the tang of it — that salt-hot pulse that beats in her veins, throbs life beneath his breastbone.

A secret shared, that is the truth of it. There is water on his tongue now; he wants to melt the snowflake caught on the tip of her nose with his breath. He wants to hear that which he has hungered for all these months and days and hours: his name, half-hitched in her throat as he puts his mouth to her cunt, makes her swim — sweat-damp, sighing — between star and moon and sun.

There will be time enough to flutter, fall together later.

For now, he steps back from his sister with a small, knowing smile. Holds his arm out, leads Daenerys into the hall of the wolves — carefully, purposefully.

*

After the council, the dragon queen retires to her chambers. Dusk is dipping at the hills; Sansa orders the torches lit, tarries beside a brazier on the battlements as if her hands are in need of warming. They are gloved and hot-blooded as her body — still, she holds them near to the flames, sweeps a lazy glance down toward the cobblestones.

It takes less than a heartbeat to find what she is looking for.

Jon spars in the training yard below. He is stripped to his shirt, sword in hand, all the fury of the gods channelling the thrust of his blade. Firelight catches at the steel, ripples along it till he looks to be hefting the dawn against the darkening air breathing ice across the braziers, making the flames stir and twist.

Sansa feels the thunder of her quickened pulse leap beneath her skin to see him so.

He is something different out there. Something else, something other. He moves like a hero from an old tale, a prince from a fable. Liquid, illuminated — firelight picking out the lines of him like a sketched figure limned in gold-flecked ink. Yet he is real, flesh and blood, no fabled prince or honour-bound hero. Put a skull in his fist, Sansa fancies he would crush it down to powder: ash and bone.

Try as she might, she cannot ignore the flicker of heat between her hipbones at the thought — the _memory_ — of him doing exactly that. Her hand rests on her belly now; she sighs through her teeth as she swirls her palm across the swell of it.

*

Jon finds himself remembering that night, too.

Laughing thick-lipped teeth, three arrows notched into a shield. His fist breaking through skin and blood to get at the bone beneath. He wanted to pick that man apart — limb from limb. Wanted to put his thumbs into those pale eyes, prise them out. He wanted to sink his teeth into that scrawny little throat, rip the laughter — the _life_ — from it.

Sansa did that herself.

They came together as the moon skittered silver across the clouds. Jon put his hands on her body, left palmprints of a bastard’s blood against her ivory skin. Sansa left marks of her own on him: a nip of nails to his chest as she sank down onto his cock, a wolf-bite on the plump muscle of his shoulder. They spun it out first that night, a secret shared between brother and sister; wrong or right, it was — _is_ — sweet and good.

A clang of steel sharpens him back to focus now. Hefts his shield quickly, thumps it — foot soldier he is sparring with goes down heavy on the snow-slick cobbles. Jon rolls his shoulders back, adjusts his grip, rakes a glance toward the battlements. Catches the glitter of her eyes; feels his wolf’s blood howl.

Throws down his shield.

There is time enough for sparring later.

For now, he is done with games.

*

Hands that can crush a skull to dust find her cheeks now, cup them. Thumbs rasp her chin, the tremble of her jawbone. He dips his head, brushes his lips close to her own till she shifts her face, opens her mouth to him, pulls him in — _deep_.

Blood beneath his nails, the sweat of sparring still dampening the shirt at the small of his back. A flash of the fight, the fury still limning the very edges of his eyes — but his fingertips on her skin are delicate, deft.

Who knew this man of violence could be so gentle?

Mm, who knew — who knows?

None but her.

“Come to bed, then.”

Her voice is soft as the slide of his kisses against the skin of her throat. He lifts his mouth from the hollow of it, holds her nape in his palm, meets her searching lips with his own. It glimmers between her bones: the fine edge of pleasure, pain that the heat of him on her body brings out. She is hungry now; her blood is howling.

“Sansa.”

The way he says it, soft and dark as a cherry rolled beneath a thumbprint: round and round, just enough weight to make it start to seep, soak the skin that toys with it. Her fingers slide beneath the silver chain at her throat, pull it free. The bone-buttons of her bodice clatter against her nails as she tugs layer after layer off, away.

“ _Sansa_.”

Wonder in his voice now; she had almost forgotten what baring her body would reveal. His palm skitters across her belly, thumb rasping softly the swell of it. Her hand comes to rest slowly atop his own.

“I could not write,” she says. “I wanted to.”

His fingers tighten on the hard, round curve. “You’ve hidden it?”

“I wanted you to be the first to know.”

“Thank you.”

It bursts from him: a metal-hiss breath as his shoulders shake and he bows toward her, folds his body around her. Sansa holds him as their fingers bind together on her belly, brushes a kiss to the pulse-point beneath his ear; a mirror to the life that beats inside her.

*

Candlelight limns the sheen of her skin, makes her glow like a goddess carved from ivory, a princess from a gold-flecked fable. Long, unbound hair tickling at his thighs as she tips back her head; spine arching as she moves her hips, finds a rhythm that makes her swim — sweat-damp, sighing — between star and moon and sun.

Jon watches her, a hand on her hip, a hand on her belly.

Flush sunk into the grooves of his hipbones: a secret throne for only her to sit on. Thought makes him smile; she catches it, bites her bottom lip as she flashes a smile all her own. He lifts his hand to cup her cheek, groans as she opens her mouth for his thumb. Sucks it — slow, soft. Gentle as the gaze they have fixed on each other.

“Thank you.”

Rocks a little slower. “For what?”

“This,” he says softly. “Everything.”

“Jo- _Jon_.”

All he has hungered for, months and days and hours: his name in her mouth. Ragged, panting as he glides his wetted thumb down between her legs, makes her rough up her rhythm. Her hands drop back to find grip on his thighs, her breasts roll as she moans a soft curse, and the skin across her belly pulls marble-taut: smooth, silky beneath the palm he keeps on it.

“Hush now, little love,” he whispers. “I have you.”

Flutters round him, threatens to fall. “Always?”

“Aye.” Husk in his throat as their faces level, eyes meet. “Always.”

Sansa falls and Jon is there to catch her. Soon, he will follow her. Oh, he will follow her — even to the edge of doom, into the light of dawn that will come after it.

It will come, that dawn: a new age, a time for wolves — the pack that sings in the blood that bonds them, the beat of life and love that grows strong inside her belly.

Jon will play whatever game he must to make it so. Win it, too.

His fingers find her chin, their lips glance. Her mouth tastes like crushed cherries: dark, sweet, sticky with the salt of them both moving high as the stars. Her ocean eyes pull at him carefully, purposefully — _greedily_.

A belly-dip: he flutters, falls.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
>   
> I wrote a rough-draft of this back in January as a sort of sequel to _[they will tremble, love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22175797) _ and then sat on it for an age and finally found the vim and verve to finish it this afternoon. Dark(ish) Jonsa is just too delicious to read, imagine, and write; I could not resist. Hope you enjoyed this. Let me know what you thought/think if u here! Oh — and title is taken from Sonnet 116 (excerpt below) by ye olde Shakespeare. ❤️
>
>> Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
> Within his bending sickle’s compass come;  
> Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
> But bears it out even to the edge of doom…


End file.
